When Fate Intervenes
by Princess Pinky
Summary: When John Juergens wakes up in a strange place and in the presence of an impossible friend, he comes to discover that he will always be responsible for shaping his parents' lives.


**A/N: **I'm planning to change the lack of John and Mercy ficage on here. This story in particular is something I started quite a while ago and just haven't completed yet. I don't plan to have super long chapters though, so apologies in advance for length. It's more of a "I'll get to it when I get to it" fic.

_**When Fate Intervenes**_

**Prologue**

John Juergens awoke with a jolt, akin to the way one awakens from a dream when they're falling. His hand found its way to his chest, grasping his throat as he shot up from the velvety grass he had been reclined on. Nothing about his surroundings registered with him. In fact, it looked like he was in a park: blue, cloudless sky and an empty sandbox, save for the plastic shovels and a toy dump truck.

John had the strangest feeling that he was forgetting something, but it was an itch that he couldn't scratch; a proverbial tickle at the back of his throat. Then he realized there was a scraping sound in the air, a clanking of metal groans. Spinning himself around, he noticed someone on the swing set. Given the raven hair that flapped like Batman's cape against the swinger's back every time the swing propelled forward, he suspected the swinger to be a she.

"Hey!" he yelled, pushing himself up from the grass. "Hey, you on the swing!" As he jogged towards her, his long baseball player legs taking him to the swing set in the blink of an eye. He watched the swinger come to an abrupt stop. As he reached her, she whirled around with a silky grin, and he had a dizzying sense of déjà vu.

"It's about time," she said, flashing him a dainty wrist that didn't have a watch. "I've lost track of how long I've been waiting for you."

"Wh – who are you?" he squeaked, his head suddenly radiating with what felt like the beginnings of a migraine. "You look so-"

"Familiar?"

"Yeah."

"I should." She lifted her arms as high as they would go and wrapped the chains of the swing around them, then used them to pull herself off the seat of the swing. Unwinding herself from the swing seemed slow and deliberate, all the while never breaking eye contact with John. "We used to play together," she smirked. "Don't you remember, Johnny? I led you to that box of abandon kittens behind the dumpsters when you were six. And when you were five…" She leaned in close, their noses almost touching. "You used to push me on the swing. Don't you remember, Johnny?"

John squinted. She looked so familiar, but there was a mental haze shrouding everything. "The swing," he murmured, staring at the lulling swing she'd just vacated. As if in a trance, he moved towards it and sat down, securing his fists around the chains. There was a crack in his mind, as if the chains containing his memories were being freed of their binds. Flashes of memory came back: _a park, a swing set, and…pushing an empty swing._

"_What are you doing, John?"_

"_Playing with my friend, Mama!"_

"_Your friend?" Amy stared at the empty seat suspiciously. "Where's your friend?"_

_Five-year-old John pulled the swing back as far as he could and shoved it forward, flashing a neon smile. "Right there, on the swing!" He pointed as the swing in question swung back at him._

"Mercy!"

"Oh, you _do_ remember!"

"That's – that's impossible! You were my _imaginary_ friend!"

"Now that's just_ rude_," she replied, smacking him lightly on the cheek. "It's been a decade, the _least_ you could do is ask me how I've been."

But as John stared at her, it all began to come back to him: the long black hair, a little wavier and less curly than he remembered it, the honey smooth olive skin, the button nose, and the mouth like a snap trap. It was all a blend of his Aunt Grace's best friend, Adrian, and his dad's best friend – Adrian's ex-husband – Ben Boykewich. She was older than he remembered, but it was most definitely her. "But – _how?_"

The laughter drained away from Mercy's eyes. "I'm sorry about that," she said slowly.

"Is this some kind of dream?" he asked, suddenly rising from the swing. "Tell me what's going on!"

Mercy clipped her hand against his chest, her face darkening. "Do_ not_ try to intimidate me, Juergens. I've been here a lot longer than you have and believe me, I _will_ kick your ass."

"What are you talking about?"

Mercy sighed and placed her hand to her forehead. "Look, John. There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to be blunt: you're dead."

"I – _what?_ No. No! I'm hallucinating, I'm – I'm-"

"D-e-a-d. How many other ways can I say it? _Muerto._ That's Spanish. Or maybe Italian? _Morto!_ Or how about-"

"How?"

Mercy's lips softened. "It comes back in time. The first few hours after death are a little fuzzy-"

"_How?"_

Mercy sighed. "Carbon monoxide poisoning. There was a leak in the house. Moose whined and clawed at your door until he woke you, but you were in a pretty bad stupor. But you managed to smell the gas and Moose led you straight down to Robie's room. He was unconscious when you got to him."

John suddenly swirled around. "Did Robie-"

"Robie made it," Mercy soothed, hand on his shoulder. "You saved him. You and Moose. But you collapsed after you got him to the street. Moose went to my grandparents' house next door and clawed at it until they woke up and he was able to lead them out to the both of you. Grandma began CPR immediately, while Grandad got on his cell to the ambulance, but by the time they got there-"

"I was gone?"

"I'm sorry."

John tilted his head all the way back, staring at the sky. It seemed like something out of a child's cartoon, too blue and too perfect. "What is this then? This – whatever _here_ is. This playground?" He jumbled his arms around to emphasize.

"It's an in-between. A limbo, you might say."

"What?" John asked sarcastically. "Is this where I'm supposed to 'meet my maker' and he – or she – pulls out the iPad containing my life and we find out whether I go to heaven or hell?" He scoured Mercy up and down. "Geeze, please don't tell me you're standing in for St. Peter!"

"Why?" she smirked, her sassiness suddenly back like a gale force wind. "Need to 'Beg for Mercy'?"

John scowled. "Why am I here?"

"Haven't you ever seen _Touched by an Angel_?"

"No. And you have? You were never even-" Then he stopped himself abruptly, noticing the flicker in her eyes.

"It's kind of a sore subject," she snapped, "but when you've got sixteen years of death on your side, sometimes you have to find ways to entertain yourself, even if they are reruns." Mercy tucked her arms into each other and turned her face away from John's. "Anyway, you have to earn your wings, so to speak." She scoffed. "Don't get the wrong idea, though. There's not a bunch of religious stuff. I mean…" She wet her lips. "Eh, well, you'll see if your religious beliefs were right or not after you crossover, but I can't give spoilers. But the point is: we have a task to do before you can do that."

"We? Why 'we'? Please don't tell me you're a slacker," he groaned. "I hate working with slackers! Isn't sixteen years enough to earn your wings? _Or something._"

"Don't be an ass," Mercy hissed. "And no, I'm not a slacker. Like I told you from the beginning, I've been waiting for you. Your task is the same as mine and I couldn't complete it without you."

"What are you on about now?"

"Oh Johnny!" Mercy chuckled, curling her hand behind his head. In a single motion, she smacked her palm into the back of his skull. "I have so much to teach you!" Her hand found its way into his and a smell cinnamon sugar filled John's nose and then they were gone.


End file.
